Smoke & Mirrors
by SJ.Endeavor
Summary: Christine is an aspiring young guitarist working the sound box at a theatre catering to a modern rock scene. The masked Erik sees a spark in her he'd like to fan and acts accordingly. Sexy Phantom goodness finally up! Patience paid off, you Erik lovers!
1. Chapter 1

FORWARD.

PLEASE READ.

THIS IS CRUCIAL TO YOUR SURVIVAL!

…kinda…

Hi.

So this is the first time I've strayed outside of the video game section of this website. Lucky me I get to waltz into the realm of_ Phantom_, huh?

Frankly, I adore _Phantom_, in all its forms. From Lon Chaney in the '25 silent film to Gerard Butler in the newest talkie, from the many novel adaptations and continuations to all the different stage plays and spin-offs thereof—I simply can't get enough.

But, as some of you might ask, which is my _Phantom_ of choice? My "flavor of _Phantom_," you might say. Or should it be "Phlavor?" Ha! Engrish, ahoy!

Joking aside, it's a mix off all the _Phantoms_. If we're talking about the internal character of the Phantom Erik, then it would be the violent, vindictive, yet pitiable book version with a dash of Gerard Butler's on-screen sensuality. If we're talking about the physical representation of the character, then it would either be the movie or the musical version (Lon Chaney did a great job of deforming Erik, but I like my Erik half-pretty, thanks. Call me shallow, but still…). If by flavor you mean plot, then I guess it would be a movie-verse version. The Erik that has his music stolen and then gets burned by acid simply appeals to me in ways the deformed-from-birth-and-raised-by-gypsies version doesn't.

Raoul—I never liked Raoul. Simple as that.

And as for Christine—well, frankly, I found her to be a bitch in most versions other than the book. The innocence in which she is portrayed to be swimming in is fascinating to me; you don't find that many characters so naïve as Christine.

That being said, what I wish to do with this fan fiction I shall summarize here: I want to pull the characters from all the _Phantom_ adaptations, be they from film or stage or page, and put them in the same place. I want to make a medley of all the Phantom's representations that _Phantom Phans (_Phans of _whatever_ version of _Phantom_) can enjoy reading about. And…

And!

I want to put it in present-day.

Now, don't groan. I realize that this has probably been done to death. What hasn't, these days (this is fan fiction we're talking about!)? But here's another twist:

I don't want it to be about opera. I don't want Christine (that's right, no OC's in this story) to sing Faust.

I want her wailing on a guitar.

That's right. Instead of opera, this is going to be about rock music. Now, please don't kill me for that, you_ Phantom_ purists (you guys are scary!), just hit the back button and don't read on if the thought of Christine being a guitar virtuoso makes your skin crawl.

But, those of you who'd like to see a different take on the _Phantom_ legend, I encourage you to read on. I hope you enjoy the first chapter of "Smoke & Mirrors." I'll be here, ready and willing to write, as long as you wish to read.

* * *

Smoke & Mirrors

Chapter 01

* * *

As Christine thumbed through a set of badly organized bass tablature, the sound of her brother's key hitting the lock of the tiny apartment's front door tore a gaping hole in the walls of her concentration.

"You home, doll?" Avery slurred as she slowly set the papers down on the tabletop. He was drunk, again. What else was new? "I brought food."

Christine didn't look up. She was perfectly fine with not looking at her older brother, and didn't need to see the two things her nose could already tell her. The first was that he stank of beer, and the second… "Gee, thanks, Avery. Pizza, again."

"Bingo!" A box featuring a smiling fat man in an apron shoved its way roughly under her nose. "Pepperoni! Your favorite!"

_I'm a vegetarian, moron!_ Christine wanted to shout as the steam from the spicy food made her eyes water, but didn't. It wouldn't help matters much. Nearly gagging, she said: "Yeah, my favorite."

Smiling, Avery crossed to couch jammed in front of their wide-screen TV. They didn't have much money—Christine slept on the couch because her brother was too cheap to buy her a real bed—but somehow they had afforded a plasma. Christine reminded herself to never let her brother handle finances as he flopped down on the battered piece of furniture (_her _battered piece of furniture, really) and jammed clumsily at the buttons of the wireless remote.

"You going to work tonight?" he asked as football players in bright jerseys pummeled one another. The crack of shoulder pads on shoulder pads was making Christine's head ache.

"Maybe. Yeah, probably," said Christine, trying to ignore the TV volume (Avery had it on an obscenely loud setting). She worked in the sound booth downtown at a bar called "The Populaire," and the name was fitting. It was a popular hangout for the City's hard rock scene.

"Good. Rent's due next week."

Christine's cheeks burned and the tabs rattled in her hands. Why was she—the seventeen year old and still practically a child—the breadwinner in this disjointed family of two? Avery was twenty five, for Chrissake! He should be paying the bills, the ungrateful high-school drop out! Christine hurriedly stood up and slammed the papers on the table. "I'm gonna go now. Don't wanna be late."

Avery smiled lazily as his younger sister as she pulled on her long winter coat and fingerless gloves. "You haven't eaten yet."

Midway to the door, Christine stopped. Turned. Grabbed a slice of the greasy pizza. The door slammed behind her with an ear-splitting protest of un-oiled hinge.

_I should rub this pizza all over those stupid pieces of rust,_ she thought with vicious cheer. _It's got enough grease to go around._

Christine went down the four flights of stairs (the elevator was out of order, as usual) and walked past the superintendent who sat stolidly behind the front desk. She gave him a curt nod, and he smiled. He knew she was the one who paid him when the bill was due. As she opened the door, wind rushed inside and buffeted her dark hair, blowing it into her eyes. Unlike Avery, she had her mother's coloring: dark hair, bright eyes, and pale skin. Avery was the exact opposite with deep brown eyes, blonde hair, and an olive complexion.

To keep her hands warm on her twenty-minute walk to The Populaire, she fondled the greaseless underside of her pizza slice, idling picking off the pieces of pepperoni and dropping them on the sidewalk. Cars and people rushed past her, oblivious to the underage girl with an underfed body, just as she was oblivious to them. When the meat was gone, she tucked the food away. Even though it almost gag-worthy, she was hungry enough to choke anything down. They didn't have much food in the apartment, so she had not eaten anything during the day.

Eventually The Populaire loomed up and out of the surrounding buildings. Its elegant exterior had been painted in deep scarlet and black, adorned here and there with spray-paint spider webs and images of rock stars. It had been turned from a graceful structure to a punk's dream with nothing more than can of paint. Christine's heart ached to see it. Back when she was a kid, before her family had fallen on hard times, she'd seen a ballet performed there, and had loved the sweeping ceilings and classic colors. Now the interior lacked the plush red carpet and wood paneling; the richness had given way to cement, day-glow graffiti, and strobe. The grand staircase in the center of the lobby would soon be covered in sleeping drunks, and the private boxes filled with couples... well, coupling. That was usually the case, anyway. The band for the evening, named "Artrider" the posters on the walls proclaimed, would later take the stage, polluting the memories of ballerinas with scantily clad groupies and near naked drummers. It made Christine sick. She loved rock music, that was true, but not what it did to this place. This place was too sacred.

"Heya, kid."

Christine started. It was the new manager, Andre. Where had he come from?

"Hi," she said to the tall man. He wore a thin mustache and his body was similarly proportioned. "What time are we opening?"

"Eight."

Christine' face fell. It was only six. She had two whole hours, and could get her main duties as the sound box operator done in just a quarter of that time.

He bent lower so his face was closer to Christine's. "Listen, Christine, I know this is a lot to ask, but Artrider already set up their instruments and Ms. Giry and Meg are up in the sound box doing a sound check. Only, they need someone to go play the guitars and drums and test the mics. Would you go up on the main stage and tap out a couple bars for them?"

Christine nodded, happy to do something. "Why did they set up so early?"

"Oh, you know Artrider," said Andre with a flippant wave of his hand. "Early birds get the worm. They're obsessed with getting signed. Right now, they're probably warming up in the dressing rooms."

Christine thought that that did indeed sound like Artrider. Four bands had been signed with major labels in the past by playing at the Populaire, and Artrider was the next in line. They had been playing solidly at the Populaire for the past six months, hoping that the scouters who frequented the theatre-turned-music-hall would pick them up. Way better than any of the cookie-cutter bands on the radio, they had a great sound and some of the most talented musicians Christine had ever heard play live. They were sure to get signed soon.

They were also the Populaire's best money maker, which afforded them special privileges—use of the old dressing rooms, for instance. The Populaire hadn't had a dull night since Artrider started playing there, given that the band had tons of groupies clamoring to get inside. Adding to the Populaire's hype was the fact that major signed names rented the place for performances with an uncanny frequency. It was the edgiest place in town, and had the best sound system thanks to the diligent efforts of one Christine Daae.

"I'll head for the stage, then," said Christine, and started walking.

Andre called after her: "Thanks, Chris!"

Christine went in the double doors at the back of the theater just in time to see Ms. Giry struggling onstage to coax notes from a Gibson Les Paul. When she heard the door slam shut after Christine, she looked up, relief spreading over her face.

"Christine!" she called, gently placing the guitar on its stand. "Thank God you're here—I have no idea how to work this thing."

As was normally the case, Meg was probably up in the sound booth working the harmonics board, which Ms. Giry had never been able to make head nor tail of, leaving the mother of the duo to test the instruments. This worked well—Meg couldn't play, and Ms. Giry couldn't use electronics. However, the only fallacy in this plan was that Ms. Giry could play very nearly as well as Meg—which is to say, not very well at all.

Christine smiled as she walked towards the stage. She kept near the wall, fingers trailing over the soot-blackened barrier. Long ago, before the theatre had been turned into a rock hall, fire had gutted the structure when a huge chandelier collapsed in a mysterious accident. The ruins of the lamp could still be found near the extreme back of the stage, in a shadowy corner no one visited if they could help it. The legends surrounding the accident were chilling, and the talk of many regulars of the club. The managers, both old and new, hadn't cleansed the soot off the walls—hadn't even attempted it—thinking that the blackness gave the place an even edgier feel than it already possessed. But to Christine, the ash—when combined with the cement floor that had been stripped of its seats and carpeting—made the place look like a broken skeleton of a once-proud creature, picked clean by carrion until there was nothing left but bone.

Christine tromped up the stairs at the side of the stage, her dark coat flapping as she fished a guitar pick from her pocket. "Lemme see."

Ms. Giry handed her the Les Paul clumsily. As she slipped the trap over her shoulder, Christine though about Giry, and why she could never see why the woman worked here—she had worked here back when it was a true theatre, but there was no reason to stay now that it had turned into this. Giry was tall, matronly, and wore simple clothes with her gray hair back in a tight bun. A total non-scenester.

Just as Christine was about to bust out a lick on the strings, a girl burst out from behind the drum set with a cry of: "Christy!"

Christine could see why Meg chose to work here, unlike her mother. Meg wore her blonde hair in high pigtails and bedecked herself in what was called a "Lolita" outfit, complete with baby-doll dresses and striped stockings and thick-soled boots.

"Hey, Meg," Christine said. "I thought you were up in the booth."

Meg shrugged. "Oh, I was, but decided to come down and show mom how to play something. It's kind of pointless to be up there when no one can give you something to adjust, you know?"

Christine nodded, absently strumming out a tune on the Gibson. "True." No sound came out of the amp, and the hum of the strings didn't carry far through the empty air.

"Oh, let me plug you in," said Meg, scrambling for a chord. "Mom, you couldn't even do _that_ much?"

Ms. Giry looked uncharacteristically sheepish. "I'm the head of maintenance here—not an equipment brat!" Giry was the one to choose the employees, making sure the bar outside the auditorium was stocked properly, and oversee the cleaning staff here at the Populaire; her job had nothing to do with music.

"Yeah, yeah." There was an audible popping noise as the filaments in an amp burst into life. "There," said Meg. "You're in. I'll head back to the booth now."

Christine nodded and began to play. Meg stopped mid-way off stage and slowly turned around.

"When'd you get so good?" she asked Christine with wide eyes, "I thought you said your genius brother wouldn't teach you."

Christine stopped playing with a blush, strings twanging discordantly. It was true: though mostly a drunkard, Avery was famed in the City's music circuit as an ace guitarist, but he had always refused to teach his sister. Laziness, Christine suspected. Or maybe a latent bit of brotherhood that wanted to keep her from the life of a broke musician, though this was unlikely. But she could dream, couldn't she? Even though her heart's desire was to play music for a living, she had resigned herself.

Until recently, that is.

"Oh, um, he won't… I've been practicing, by myself. Alone," Christine mumbled.

Meg looked skeptical, but let it go. "That's a lot of progress."

"Truly," said Ms. Giry. "Wasn't it just three months ago you tried to audition for the house band?"

Christine grimaced, nose wrinkling. The audition Ms. Giry referenced had been a disaster. "Yeah, it was." She turned away from the two and began to tap out a less snappy tune. Desperate for a subject change, Christine said: "I thought we had a sound check to do?"

Meg and her mother shared a look, but didn't comment of Christine's evasive manner, Then again, what was there to suspect? Why would Christine hide a tutor?

"Want to take booth or the strings?" Meg asked as Ms. Giry went to check out the bar's stock. "You're better at the boards than me."

Christine handed Meg the guitar. "I'll do the checking bit. Just play a scale or two when I tell you. I'll use the intercom."

"'Kay," said Meg, fiddling with the strings. Her playing was clunky next to Christine's.

Christine went off, eager to put some distance between herself and her best friend. Though she had always thought she would be able to tell Meg anything (they'd even sworn to in the fifth grade, sealing the oath with a pinky promise), she realized that "anything" and "everything" were not mutually inclusive concepts. "Anything" did not encompass all of what Christine _could_ tell, just what she _wanted _to. That was a loop hole Christine was glad to exploit. No one could learn of her secret—and that included Meg.

_Especially_ Meg.

The sound box was located above the balcony, though it looked more like a sport commentator's office from the outside than anything else: it had three glass windows overlooking the stage. To get to it, you had to take the stairs up to the balcony (the balcony was roped off most of the year; it didn't have a high enough railing to protect the drunk rockers from falling over it), and from there another set of steps through a door in the back wall.

Christine hopped the chain guarding the stairwell and jogged up the flight; she was so used to this that by the time she was all the way up the fifty or so steps, she wasn't even winded. She waved to Meg from the balcony, then took the second flight.

The box was dark, but had been made lighter by the huge mirror on the back wall, which reflected all the light in the room so it was easier to see without the aid of artificial bulbs. Still, Christine flicked on the lights so she could see her very best.

She thumbed the intercom button with practiced ease. "Testing amp #1; guitar 1." There came the sound of a simple scale. It was too soft, though, and Christine adjusted the amp's volume accordingly. "Testing amp #2; bass #1."

The rest of the sound check passed with relative ease. "Okay, we're done," Christine told Meg over the PA when they'd finished. "I'll be up here working on the lights display. Come on up if you want."

Though she was very far away, Christine could see Meg's pigtails flapping as she shook her head. "Naw," she said into the newly-tested microphone. Her voice was clear. It was a good connection. "I'm gonna call David and get the bar ready."

David was Meg's boyfriend. "Talk to you later, then," Christine said, and shut off the electricity feeding the equipment. She hated talking with people over the PA/mic. It was too public. She sat back in her chair, not intending to actually work on the lights like she'd told Meg. Christine liked to do things ahead of schedule, so she'd taken care of this particular show last weekend. She truly had nothing to do.

Christine's eyes wandered over to the eight private boxes near the stage. People could rent these for concerts, and when a signed label came to town, they went for thousands of dollars. All save one, that is, which was never rented out. It never had been, as far as Christine could tell.

Box 5.

Her eyes lingered on it. After a moment, she tore her gaze away and promptly stood. Casting an anxious glance at the tall mirror behind her, she strode quickly from the room.

She wasn't in the mood to be alone with her secret right now.


	2. Chapter 2 & Author's Note 1

Smoke & Mirrors

Chapter 02

Thinking that Andre, the new manager, might have more work for her to do (for a nice bonus, she hoped), Christine trudged down the stairs to his office. She opened the door just in time to hear him say: "I'm sorry, but Box 4 has already been taken for that performance. Will Box 5 do?"

Christine stopped dead, not believing what her ears were telling her.

He was renting out Box 5?

The conversation went on without a hitch. "Oh, good, I'll put you down for it…the fourteenth, yes, yes, I understand… well, thank you again. See you on opening day."

Christine backed away from the door slowly, letting it fall closed without a sound. Her head was reeling: what in the world was Andre thinking? Surely he'd heard the legends—no sane man would rent out that box if they knew!

Or was Andre erring in ignorance?

But if that were the case, why hadn't someone told him?

Christine was catapulted out of her thoughts when a hand gripped her shoulder. It was Meg.

"What's going on?" the blonde asked in hushed tones, seeing Christine's shell-shocked face.

"Didn't your mom tell Andre about Box 5?"

No more words were needed to get Christine's point across; her face said it all. Meg's grip on her friend's shoulder tightened as her face paled dramatically behind its skin of makeup. "Don't tell me—"

"He's renting it out," Christine whispered. "That skinny fool is renting out box number five!"

The two girls stood staring at one another, aghast and speechless. Their shocked silence as so absorbing that they jumped violently when a loud, booming voice suddenly asked: "What are two fine young ladies whispering about in the dark?"

Andre's business partner and co-manager, Firmin, had somehow crept up behind them. He, in contrast to the long and lean Andre, was a short, portly man with thinning hair and basset hound eyes. If Andre was a skinny fool, the Firmin was a fat fool. They made a good pair.

Meg was the first to speak. "Well, sir, I…"

"Yes, Miss Giry," he laughed. His deep baritone possessed the quality of a doting uncle's. "What is it?"

"I was wondering if you knew anything about the legend of the fallen chandelier… and Box 5?"

Firmin gave the two girls a patronizing look. "Now, girls," he said, "aren't the two of you a little too old to believe in ghost stories riding on no more fact than embellished coincidence and drunken speculation?"

"You mean you know the tale of the Theatre Ghost and still rent out the box?" Christine cried in surprise. Her heart began to thud unevenly. "Don't tell me you're going to cut off the allowance, too!"

Meg looked similarly aghast. "All of the accidents! The deaths! Ever since Box 5 was perpetually reserved and the monthly allowance given, they stopped! That can't be coincidence!"

Firmin laughed, fat jowls jiggling, as if sharing a private joke with himself. "Coincidence, bad luck, whatever—not renting out that box is bad for business, as is giving money to whomever it is that takes those checks your mother lays out." This last was delivered with a meaningful look at Meg. "Whomever benefits from them must be living quite comfortably, indeed. I hear you and your mother recently purchase a new apartment, Meg. How is it suiting you?"

Christine's ears burned at this last. Was he accusing the Girings of stealing the allowance? Beside her, Meg's fists clenched and began to shake with carefully suppressed rage.

Firmin looked at his watch, pointedly ending the conversation. "At any rate, I'm in a hurry. Andre and I have a few business details to work out, you understand. See you later." He promptly strode into Andre's office and shut the door firmly behind him.

"Can you believe it?" Meg fumed as she and Christine walked down the hall. Their feet—Meg's in boots, Christine's in sneakers—created quite a racket in the narrow hallway. "Accusing me and mom of taking the money! Of all the nerve! And renting out Box 5! Just who does he think he is?"

"The manager," Christine said, tone even. "Which means he can do anything he wants."

They walked, trading grievances and condolences, until they came to the primary bar located underneath the main staircase. Ms. Giry was checking taking inventory on a clipboard when she noticed the her daughter and Christine. Seeing Meg's enlivened state and Christine's pale cheeks, she put down her work. "What's wrong?"

Quickly, Meg and Christine filled her in on what had happened. "Can you believe it?" Meg asked when they were through, and repeated: "The nerve!"

Ms. Giry did not reply right away. Her thoughts were obviously elsewhere. "It is troublesome," she muttered, eyes distant as she took up the clipboard again. She made a detached check mark. Then she was all business once more, eyes clearing of their clouds. "I'll speak to Andre and Firmin about it." Her face went very, very still as she added: "Or perhaps the Ghost will beat me to the punch."

Christine's blood went cold; icily so. The accidents she imagined the Ghost were capable of were horrific, but she knew that they would pale in comparison to the thing the Ghost was actually capable of. The rumors were graphic enough. It had been a long time since he'd last struck, but the descriptions of his deed were still fresh and untarnished by time. Christine had no desire to ever see him angered again.

Maybe… the thought came from nowhere: maybe Christine could keep him from hurting someone. Maybe, if she got to him first, he'd take the news better.

"Mama, I've been wondering," Meg said slowly as she sank onto one of the barstools, oblivious to Christine's state. She pillowed her head on her hands and asked: "Why would a Ghost need the money we give him every month? I mean, it's not like he eats or anything, so I just wondered…"

"His reasons are his own," Ms. Giry said quickly. Her eyes flickered at Christine.

The glance worried Christine. Did the older woman suspect something? Christine settled onto a stool next to Meg, running a hand through her dark hair. What did Giry know about the Ghost, and about his connection to Christine? What wasn't she saying about him? A tremor shook Christine's hands, but she stilled the tremble quickly. No one could find out; she couldn't show her worry. That was paramount.

"I never did finish the lights," Christine muttered, trying to get away. The sooner she took care of things, the better. Though this was a lie, she didn't feel bad about giving it. Her real reasons were too important. With a grunt she got off her stool. "I'll be in the sound box."

Meg laughed. "And I never did call David." Her smile faded. "Hey, Christine—why were you by Andre's office? I thought you were working on the lights."

That stopped Christine dead. It was just like Meg to notice too much. Thinking fast, she said: "There was a note on the central switch board, telling me to come down to talk to Andre. But then, after the incident with Firmin, I didn't have the heart to go inside."

"I didn't see a note," Meg said, confused.

Christine shrugged. Meg really_ was_ too perceptive. "Must've missed it. Either that or he put it there when we were all onstage."

"Strange, we didn't see him," said Ms. Giry. "The stairs are in plain view."

Christine met the older woman's dark eyes, though only reluctantly. It was easy to see where Meg had gotten her insightfulness. "Yeah, that is weird."

They traded a level stare for nearly ten seconds, and Christine felt her pulse begin to pound. This woman was suspicious of her. She knew it, and hated it, because she didn't know how to fix it.

But, then, Giry looked away. "I guess we'll see you later, then."

Relieved, Christine nodded and waved to the mother and daughter. Feeling triumphant that she had averted a crisis, Christine all but flew up the stairs to the sound box. She wasn't surprised to find that the lights had been turned off and the chairs pushed back under the desk.

Knowing that he would eventually come around, she sat in her favorite wheeled chair and began to fiddle with the light board. Only, sitting with her back to the mirror was making her nervous, so she turned around to stare at it. It always made her wonder if the mirror was a one-way: she could never see the Ghost, but he commented on her every move, making her think it was transparent from the other side. It was either that or he had hidden cameras all around, but that didn't seem to be his style. Or maybe he really was a ghost. But, if that was the case, why was he able to organize her desk and flip off the lights every time she left the room?

"Where are you?" Christine whispered to herself. Her words vanished into the still air. "Where are you—you're always there, watching me, so why not now? Why?!"

There was no answer. It seemed Christine's secret was feeling contrary today. She glanced at her watch: 7:30. Patrons would start drifting in soon, come hell or high water, and Christine realized she would be pulling a long night. If she wanted to talk with the Ghost, she would have to wait for the show to end. He never came to her unless the theatre was completely deserted. When people were in attendance, his shadowy form could be glimpse in Box 5, or flitting amongst the rafters or prowling on the catwalk, but never in the sound box. Never close enough to talk to.

Suddenly, the intercom system set next to the door buzzed, making her jump. Feeling silly, Christine rose and pressed the talk button. "Yes?" she said, and lifted her finger away.

"It's me, Andre," said Andre. His voice crackled with static. "There's someone here to see you."

"Name?" asked Christine. She didn't have many friends, and there was no way her brother would be here (he was drunk under the table by now)—so who was it?

"Uh…" There was a pause, and then: "Says he wants it to be a surprise. And, Christine, he's pretty insistent about seeing you. Can I send him up to the box, or do you wanna come down?"

She deliberated. "Send him up. Does he know the way?"

Another pause. Then, in a surprised voice: "Yeah, he does, actually. He's on his way." The line went dead.

Christine sat down to wait, and didn't have to wait long for the door to burst open. A man, probably nineteen or twenty, strode in. He had wavy gold hair and flashing blue eyes, a handsome face and an obviously muscled body. His leather jacked squeaked when he moved.

"Raoul!" Christine cried, jumping up. "Oh my gosh! When did you get back?"

The man, Raoul, smiled and held open his arms. Christine practically jumped into them. "It's winter break at the school," he said in a surprisingly deep voice.

"Oh!" Christine blushed, feeling like a fool. "Christmas! I forgot!" Raoul was attending a famous music school with a full ride scholarship. He'd been the rhythm guitarist in Christine's older brother Avery's band until college had "stolen him," as Avery put it. Christine's brother was of the belief all you needed was determination to get a well paying job. Unfortunately, it didn't come that easy for musicians. You needed money, time, and talent, too. Lots and lots of talent. Raoul had it in abundance. He also had the most uncanny luck, which, in some instances, was more useful than having talent. This luck was what got him spotted by a school scout, looking for new blood.

Raoul chuckled. "Yeah, I can see that." His face grew a bit more somber as Christine stepped back. "I really wanted to see you, Christine."

His sudden intensity surprised her. "I've missed you too," she blurted. "Really, I have. The band fell apart without you." Raoul had been the only responsible member of her brother's band, Gilgamesh, and when he left the rest of the members drifted away until the band was nothing more than Avery's idle dream. That's when he'd taken heavily to the liquor bottle.

At her words, Raoul's face grew morose. "That's not what I meant. I missed_ you_. Not the band." He grinned crookedly. For as long as she had known him, Christine had adored that slanted smile. It made her glow to see it now. "You."

Christine's face grew hot. She didn't know what to say (somehow, she always managed to get tongue tied around Raoul), and settled with: "Thanks." They stood in awkward silence for several moments, not wanting to look one another in the eye. But, then, Christine found herself struck with a case of the giggles, and soon both were laughing at themselves.

"God, it's good to see you," she giggled.

Raoul opened his mouth to reply, crooked smile still on full display, but the intercom buzzed again, cutting him off abruptly. "Christine!" it wailed in Meg's voice. "Christine! Are you hogging Raoul? Is he here?"

Inwardly, Christine frowned. She didn't want to have to share her friend. Meg had had a crush on him for ages, and for some reason the thought of him reciprocating her emotions made her cringe. Was she jealous?

Raoul walked across the room and thumbed the intercom. "Hey, Meg!"

There was a squeal, made tinny by the bad connection. "Ooh, Raoul! Come down here and talk to me! I'm all alone setting up the bar!"

"Only if there're free drinks involved," he said, with a blithe smile at Christine. He mouthed the word 'sorry,' and she smiled back, though the expression was forced. She did _not_ want to share Raoul!

"Anything for you!" Meg sighed, then playfully snapped: "Now get your butt down here!"

Raoul straightened and looked at Christine, who said: "I guess I'll see you later, then." She turned back to her work, and felt her throat constrict threateningly. Was she about to cry? She closed her eyes and tried hard to not let tears fall. Why was she crying? This wasn't like her. It was only Raoul!

Or… _was_ he the reason?

"Yeah," Raoul murmured. He fidgeted, then said (with no small amount of hesitance): "Hey… um… would you like to grab a bite to eat with me after the show tonight?"

Christine tore her eyes from her desk and stared at Raoul. Was he asking her out? Her practicality overrode her disbelieving joy. "You do realize that that'll be at, like, four in the morning, right?"

He fidgeted some more, bright blue eyes nervous. "Yeah, I know." He perked up. "How about pancakes?"

"Huh?"

"IHOP's got 24 hour service."

Christine just stared, so Raoul reiterated: "I'd like pancakes at four in the morning. Who wouldn't? It's a nice sugar rush to help you stay up. You wanna go, right? Just us, no distractions. We need to catch up."

It didn't take much deliberation for Christine to make a decision. "I'd love to," she blurted.

Raoul smiled the widest he had all night, and Christine's heart leapt to see the crooked grin. "It's a plan, then." He mock-punched her arm gently. "See you later, then. Gotta go pacify the Meg Monster." He headed for the door.

"Uh, Raoul?" Christine asked just as he stepped out. He poked his head back in, smiling.

"Yeah?"

Christine hesitated. "Is our IHOP run… well, is it a date?"

His smile faded. "Can it be?"

Christine's palms were suddenly sweaty, and all of a sudden she was self-conscious of her tattered jeans and faded sweatshirt. Why hadn't she worn something nicer. Slowly, heart pumping blood at an almost unsightly rate, she said: "Yeah."

"Then it is." Raoul waved, smile returning in full force. "Catcha later." Then he was gone.

When the door shut behind him, Christine's knees were knocking so badly she had to sit down. Her hands shook even worse, but her smile was as steady as the sun.

"A date with Raoul," she whispered. "A date." And then, as if she couldn't believe it: "A date!" She got up, knees back to normal, and spun on her toes. "Yippee!" Elation bubbled through her from head to toe; nothing anyone could do or say now could cast a pall over her day.

Except, of course, the thought of what her secret would have to say about her date.

Doubtless, he would not be pleased.

* * *

* * *

AUTHOR's NOTE and/or PATHETIC APOLOGY

Um… hi. I'm a ChristinexEric shipper, but Raoul… well, love triangles are the meat and potatoes of Phantom, right? Even though it makes my stomach churn to portray Christine as ga-ga over Raoul, I felt it had to be done for the story's sake.

I'm not telling you the ending pairing, but don't worry, not all hope is lost you CxE shippers! There'll be plenty of EricxChristine bits throughout this fan fic for you to mull over. I'm thinking… next chapter, maybe? Now I just gotta ago write it… hope you enjoyed this chapter! Cheers!

Oh, and I forgot to ask-- which would you prefer: more frequent updates of shorter chapters, or chapters of the current length at the current pace? for example, I could have gotten all of this information out by now, but it would have been in shorter bits. I, personally, like longer chapters, but I want to know my reader's opinion. Just review or PM or whatever and tell me which you'd like better, okay? I've never known which was more effective and would like to find out. Who better to ask than my readers? Thanks!

T.


	3. Chapter 3

Smoke & Mirrors

Chapter 3

The roar of the music was so loud Christine had to break out a pair of sound cancelling headphones. She'd found them during her third month working the sound booth; they had been an obvious gift, as a black ribbon had been tied around the headband. Christine had used them ever since. She'd assumed they were a welcome gift from the old manager, but when more small gifts—earplugs, packets of guitar picks, spare bass strings of good quality—kept coming for months, she'd realized that the gifts were someone else's work.

At first, the small favors had simply puzzled her. But when, late one night, she'd complained in the sound box to Meg that a high quality amp cable had been accidentally severed by a broken shot glass, something a bit too coincidental for comfort happened. Christine left with Meg to go clean up the stage, and when they had finished Christine realized she left her jacket in the booth. When she went back up to get it, a brand new cable lay coiled serenely on the main control panel.

The tokens weren't scary, but they did unnerve Christine. How had her mysterious gift giver managed to sneak so quickly into the box? Furthermore, how did he know she needed a cable exactly like the one he left her? Coincidence?

Christine didn't think so.

So she tried an experiment. She feigned talking to herself and moaned about missing equipment, or complained about said equipment to Meg, but made sure to always do both within earshot of the sound booth. Sure enough, the next day (sometimes hours or even minutes later, if the item was commonplace enough) the requested item would be waiting for Christine whenever she went back to check.

Once, she even requested something as mundane as milk. "Dammit, I forgot to buy the milk!" she'd exclaimed after hours one night. Disappointment came, at first, when no friendly bottles appeared in the sound booth, but the feeling quickly gave way to elation when Ms. Giry came to her, confusion etched in the lines of her face, saying that she found a carton of milk in the storeroom refrigerator with Miss Daae's name tacked on it.

Christine had kept the post-it note bearing her name. Her mysterious friend had beautiful handwriting: elegant and poised, calligraphic without being too feminine. She felt sure her benefactor was a man. Something about his actions just… smacked of maleness. She kept the paper tacked to the cork-board at home, along with her grocery lists and unpaid bills.

The bills worried Christine and took over her thoughts as she watched the in-house band, Artrider, pound out a cover of the venerable Metallica's "King Nothing." The lead guitarist—a veritable prima-donna of a woman named Caroline (though all of the Populaire's backstage hands called her "Queen Bitch Caro" in private)—hammered out an improvised solo that Christine, personally, thought lacked any depth whatsoever. The woman, despite being a technical genius, put little soul into her playing.

The crowd, however, simply cheered as she climbed the scale. The drunks liked the catchy riff and popping bass as Artrider made a 'ska' butchery of Metallica's ponderous sound.

As Queen Bitch Caro's fingers climbed closer and closer to her guitar's body, the notes expelled by the tortured stage side amps became higher and higher in pitch and cadence. Christine found herself wincing along with every strum. Oh, how her head would ache once the night was through, sound-cancelling headphones regardless! Ignoring the stabbing sensation at her temples, Christine made a slight adjustment on Caro's key amp, lessening the sound output by a tenth of a degree.

The change was like liquid relief flowing into Christine's ears, and she sighed as she slumped backwards in her chair. Her head titled back until she regarded her reflection in the mirror on he back wall upside-down, her ponytail of hair hanging down beneath her upturned face like a cocoa waterfall.

The mirror was cool looking; peaceful. It reflected the flashing strobe in the Populaire proper complacently, and Christine's face changed colors in time with her pre-set light show.

"I hate what Caro's done to this song," Christine complained, unsure whether or not she could be heard over the nearby roar of music. Though the sound booth had been moderately sound-proofed, it still rang with peals of music. Christine's headphones were not for show. "Metallica and ska? Mixed? What the heck were Andre and Firmin thinking, letting her get away with this? Better yet, what were her _band-mates_ thinking?" Christine snuck a glance at the dancing, raving crowd of drunks far below her on the floor. "I'll never understand how those idiots actually _enjoy_ this stuff."

She stared at the mirror expectantly, but nothing happened. He usually answered her. He usually agreed with her.

Christine sighed. Her tutor was as finicky with his appearances as always, it seemed. She really would have to wait until after the show.

All was quiet at the Populaire. The amps had been shut off and the bar closed down for the night. The drunks had been pushed out the doors and the couples in the balconies forced to find alternative love nests. It was four in the morning, but still the Populaire had guests. Andre and Firmin had called a last-minute meeting of all the staff members onstage before final lockup.

Christine, however, didn't know about the meeting until a minute before it began. Meg burst into the sound booth, where Christine was coiling cables and electrical chords with practiced ease. The sound booth had a storage closet built in, and Firmin and Andre had elected it the best place to store the expensive chords. The sound booth had the best locks in the building: two deadbolts, a chain, and a peg lock, all forged of heavy steel.

Christine, as she coiled up another wire, sighed to herself disconsolately. With Andre and Firmin's decision to use Christine's domain as storage, her workload had increased. She didn't trust anyone with her precious sound boards and control scheme, and allowed few people inside without her there to supervise. The task of winding the chords was completely hers. But that bit of extra work was not what irked her the most. She had expected her mysterious friend to speak by now, but he had not obliged her with his presence. Christine was worried, though for why she couldn't say.

She knew he would come to her in time.

As she took the wire over to the storage closet, someone jiggled the handle of the sound booth's door. The locks were all engaged, guarding against rogue club hoppers who wandered too far into the Populaire's least inhabited sections. Christine could the doorknob twist in its socket as someone tried to get inside.

"Christine?" a voice called frantically. It was Meg. "Christine, are you in there? Open up! Quick!"

Christine tossed the chord into its slot and bolted to the door. With sure hands she disengaged all the lock and threw the portal open.

"Are you okay, Meg?" she blurted, but Meg—eyes wild, one pigtail slipping down precariously—grabbed her by the wrist and began to tug Christine down the stairs. Smoke and graffiti-marred walls rushed past the two friends in a sooty day-glow blur.

"Meg, what's going on?" Christine asked sharply.

Meg didn't let up stride. "Full-staff meeting onstage in—" she glanced at her Hello Kitty watch, "a minute ago."

Christine stopped dragging her feet and began to run herself. Meg didn't have to pull her along anymore. Meetings like this were rarely called, and only in the case of an emergency. "Did they mention what the meeting's about?"

Meg shook her head as the girls at last reached the level floor of the proscenium landing. "Just called it and left it at that."

As the stage came into view, Christine saw that Queen Caro and the other members of Artrider had taken up position center stage, the queen herself in the center. She laughed too loudly, her harsh voice carrying over the theater like a banshee's wail. She quieted, however, when Firmin raised his voice and spoke to the assembled employees.

Meg started to dash off towards the stage, eager to hear, but Christine grabbed her by the arm.

"No!" she hissed. "Let's sneak around backstage. Caro won't like that we're late!"

Meg saw the light in that logic, and nodded. Quietly, so as not to draw attention to themselves, Meg and Christine snuck out the double doors to the theater lobby and circled around backstage.

The stage was grimy and dim. Cobwebs hung like silver nets in the rafters, illuminated by the two floodlights set on opposite ends of the fly space (or, as the employees who were not theater minded called it: "the needless space behind the curtain but above the stage"). Most of the catwalks were deserted and covered in dust, save for a few at the front where strobes had been installed and were maintained daily. Far back in the shadowy corner of stage right, a gigantic canvas lump reared from the darkness like a pale gray specter.

Christine suppressed a shiver when she saw the chandelier. It was spooky.

She didn't have much time to indulge in her chills, however, for Meg saw her hesitate and tugged at her arm again. Christine moved on with little extra encouragement; she could never get over how spooky the backstage area was and did not fancy lingering there.

The two girls neared the throng of employees just after the beginning of the portly Firmin's speech. They had missed all of the pleasantries, it seemed, tuning in just in time for the actual business of the meeting. Meg and Christine moved to Ms. Giry's side just as Firmin said in his deep voice:

"…a few changes will be made."

"'Changes'?" Meg whispered to her mother, who jumped. "What does he mean, 'changes'?"

"Where have you been, Meg?" Ms. Giry hissed, though not unkindly.

"She had to come and get me," Christine interjected, hoping to keep Meg out of trouble. "I didn't know about the meeting."

It worked. Ms. Giry nodded, smiled, and turned back to Firmin. Meg beamed and began to retie her fallen pigtails.

"None of your jobs will be cut, and no pay deductions will ensue," Firmin was saying. "But the lax schedule your previous manager had for you will not be carrying over into my ownership—that is to say, mine and Andre's ownership of this establishment. You will expected to report to work every day at seven o'clock, sharp. Is that understood?"

The employees glanced at each other dubiously and muttered darkly amongst themselves, but nodded and did not feel too worried. Firmin was acting too jovial to appear threatening, and it wasn't his set time was unreasonable or anything…

"Furthermore," he said, "needed renovations to the building will be made! The backstage will be made useable, and the dressing rooms backstage will be thoroughly cleaned out."

This revelation was met with titters, more than one of them fearful. Rumors of the deep backstage areas being haunted abounded, and no one looked forward to having the ghost's domain violated.

"That's a risky move," Ms. Giry muttered out the corner of her mouth. Meg was too riveted in fastening her pigtails to listen properly, but Christine was rapt. "I don't think our friendly phantom will be altogether pleased with that arrangement. He likes his privacy, after all."

The words stabbed a spike of dread deep into Christine's heart. Ms. Giry's remarks seemed… too coincidental. And this, coupled with her earlier scrutiny of Christine, was altogether unnerving. How much did the woman know, exactly?

"And, lastly," said Firmin, "the wholly unprofitable practice of never renting out Box 5 will be abandoned entirely."

Silence.

Then bedlam.

"What?!" Queen Bitch Caro, who had been uncharacteristically silent until then, looked livid. "What?!"

"Are you insane?" cried a bartender.

"I don't f-----g believe it," a bouncer growled, cradling his head in plate-sized hands. "No f-----g way. I quit."

Firmin and Andre exchanged a dark look, and then Andre stepped forward to take Firmin's place. Andre spared no time for niceties.

"Quiet!" he roared, and the silence was absolute. The skinny man's eyes flashed dangerously. "Now," he said, "Firmin and I have discussed this at length, and despite the numerous—" at this his eyes flickered at Christine, Meg, and Ms. Giry, "warnings we've received concerning our decision, our choice is final. Box 5 is the best in the house, and we could earn a killing by renting it. Saving it for a ghost—" his audience gasped at this; he'd said the dreaded 'ghost' word aloud!, "is a fool's venture. And that's final."

He stepped back, and the meeting was officially adjourned.

Unofficially, however, it raged on.

"I won't work if that happens!" Caro shouted, pacing back and forth. Her bell bottom blue jeans swished angrily across the dusty stage. "No, no, no, no, _no_! I won't! I quit!"

"Caroline, please," pleaded Firmin, trying to appease the raging diva, "we need you!"

She huffed loudly. "Well, I sure as hell don't need you!" she stalked off, but the rest of the employees, well used to her fits, moved to intercept her with praise and pleas.

"Why don't you play a song for us?" one wheedled. The rest took up the cry, too.

"A song!" they chanted. "A song, a song!"

Quite overwhelmed (or at least pretending to be) Caro staggered back as if bowled over by her "fan's" compliments. "Well," she said, batting her eyes. One of her false, rhinestone studded eyelashes was slightly askew, and her brilliant orange eye shadow had been smudged all the way up to the arch of her eyebrow. "Well, well. I had no idea I was so loved."

The employees took the obvious bait, knowing it would make her happy. "Oh, you're loved!" they called. "So loved! Play for us!"

And the Queen did just that. With a mince befitting a supermodel on drugs, she sauntered over to her guitar (she'd left it lying out, as she had been showing off prior to the meeting's commencement) and slipped the boa-skin strap over her head.

"An amp, if I may?" she purred through red-painted lips. In the time it took for her to make a single flip of her long, blonde hair, her chord was plugged into the last available amp on the stage: a towering monolith of an amp Christine knew she'd left on full blast. Knowing what was to come, she covertly put her fingers in her ears, and warned Meg and her mother to do the same.

Caro smiled and batted her crooked eyelashes at her observers, then produced a pick from her pocket. With a flourish, she laid it prettily across the strings of her baby-blue Fender Stratocaster.

SHRIEK!

The top string was out of tune. Blushing, she corrected it with a flick of her leather-cuffed wrist, and strummed. The tone came out perfect, and she began to play a riotous solo.

The chords were excruciating, Christine fancied, and the delivery overblown. Still, though it hurt her to do so, she played along with the illusion that the playing was phenomenal and smiled and 'ooh-ed' along with the rest of them.

And it was, in its own way. Again, Caro was a technical genius. Her originality was her biggest shortcoming, and Christine knew from a very trustworthy source that imagination and heart was what really made playing shine. That and the ability to recover from screw-ups with quick improvisation.

It wasn't any wonder that Caro threw down her guitar with an embarrassed cry as her highest string snapped with a prolonged "twang". Instead of recovering from it gracefully, she shrugged out of the guitar strap and slammed the instrument into Firmin's pudgy arms.

"Too much pressure!" she bitched. "Too much! Too much! Strings snapping all over the place, ghosts in all the corners—I won't be playing tomorrow! Count me out! Sayonara, baby! Ciao! Aloha! Adios!"

What happened then was hard to say.

There came a streak of light from above, the tinkle of broken glass, and Caro's screams. Christine couldn't register what happened for a long moment, but then felt herself grow pale as she took in the sight of a smashed light bulb lying mere inches before Caro's high-heeled feet. Glass had splattered over the front of Caro's jeans and lay sparkling in the dark denim's creases.

"You see!" the guitarist shrieked. "You see! The ghost is after me because of _you_!" She wheeled around and jabbed a lacquered fingernail at Andre and Firmin's shocked faces. "He wants me dead because of your ignorance! Do not rent out that Box! If you do my death will be on your heads! You can find a new guitarist!"

She stormed off of the stage and onto the floor, Andre and Firmin trailing after.

"Wait! Please! It was just a light bulb! An accident!" cried Firmin.

"Aren't being overly dramatic?" Andre yelled dryly, and received a bop on the head by the fat Firmin.

"Be kind!"

"Accident!" Caro roared. Her voice could still be heard quite clearly even as she exit the theater's back doors. "Accident my ass!"

As she drifted out of shout-shot, rabble broke out.

"Knowing Caro, she won't be back for days," sighed Ms. Giry.

"What 'll we do about a guitarist, mom?" Meg whispered frantically, clutching at her mother's sleeve. "What'll we do?!"

"I have no idea," Ms. Giry muttered, eyes very far away.

Christine, meanwhile, was speechless.

Had the ghost been the one to throw that light bulb? She had to get back to the sound booth.

"I have to go," Christine blurted. The Giry's looked at her, startled out of their own affairs. "Sorry. I'm late for home."

"Uh… okay?" Meg said, nonplussed at the outburst. "See ya?"

But Christine didn't hear. She had already vaulted off the stage and taken off for the stairs at a run.

* * *

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Sorry this A) took so long to write, and B) didn't contain in-the-flesh Phantom like I promised. I couldn't work it in; this chapter would have been a mile long if I had. Can't spoil y'all too rotten, now can I ([wink)? Until later. Next chapter will come faster if I get my way, and you yours. Caro's eyelashes amuse me!


	4. Chapter 4

Smoke & Mirrors

By S.J. Endeavors

Chapter 04

* * *

Raoul caught her outside.

"Whoa, what's the rush?" he asked, grasping her wrist. "House burning down?"

Breathless, Christine replied: "Forgot something. I have to go take care of it." Carefully she extracted her arm from his gentle clasp, mind focused not on Raoul but on what she'd say to her invisible friend when she saw—well, heard—him next.

"Wait," Raoul protested as she jogged off. "What about our date?"

_That_ brought Christine to a grinding halt. Swearing, she turned around and put a hand to her forehead. "Jesus, I forgot!" Indeed she had; she had been so focused on the antics of the phantom that she had let every one of her other concerns drift to the extreme far corners of her mind.

Raoul's face was a collage of disbelief and gloom. "You forgot," he repeated. "Oh."

That single syllable was like a dagger in Christine's heart. "Oh, Raoul," she murmured, hanging her head. "I'm so sorry, but can we take a rain check? I've got something I need to take care of."

"How long will it take?"

Christine was caught off guard. "I'm… not sure," she blurted, face reddening. "Maybe minutes; maybe an hour. More, if…"

"I'll wait for you."

Christine started to protest, but the look on Raoul's face was too heart-wrenching to fight. Her resistance wavered, then crumbled entirely. "Oh, fine," she mock-grumbled. "Stay here until I get back." And with that, she ran off towards the staircase.

Raoul's voice called after her. "Will you tell me what you're doing? Maybe I can help."

Christine grimaced, but did not answer him. She knew there was nothing Raoul could do.

Christine was alone.

* * *

Christine burst into the sound booth less than a minute later.

"Phantom!" she panted, winded from taking the massive flight of stairs two-at-a-time. She blindly fumbled at the door, and locked it. "Phantom! I have to talk to you!"

Silence for a minute, and then… static.

Months earlier, the Phantom had spoken to Christine for the first time in the same way he did now. The image on a monitor above the main electric console, wired to a security camera whose field of view encompassed the entire main stage, flickered and waved, and was then replaced by a new picture of a plush red-velvet chair whose legs terminated in clawed lion's paws. The wood of the chair's frame was gilt gold, and the cushions shining and lustrous. Other than the regal chair, however, the screen was empty.

"Hello, Christine," said a voice. It issued from the low-grade speakers installed on the monitor itself, and the man's honey smooth voice was made tinny over the connection. Still, it was a voice of velvet, of promise, of feeling, of… sensuality. It sent a shiver down Christine's spine. "You called me?"

Christine tried to ignore the voice's pleasantness; its seductive timbre and cadence would distract her if she allowed her goal to slip from the forefront of her mind. "Damn right, I did," she snapped.

"Now, now," said the voice of the Ghost. Though his tone was still even, Christine could detect a hidden edge buried deep beneath the pretty pitch. "Profanity does not suit you, Christine."

Christine sighed and took a deep, calming breath. The Phantom was a strange one. Though he himself had no reservations about swearing, he abhorred for improper words to come out of Christine's mouth and refused to answer questions phrased in what he deemed as an inappropriate manner. Getting mad and giving into cursing would alienate him, and Christine wanted her finicky tutor to talk.

"I know," Christine said slowly. "I'm sorry."

Silence.

Christine sighed again. So it was one of _those _days.

"I take it you wanted to ask me a question," the Phantom stated bluntly. His voice was a degree cooler than it had been previously, though no less appealing. Not for the first time, Christine wondered what he looked like. Surely he had a body to match the voice. She hoped so.

"Yeah," Christine admitted. Suddenly, her tongue was stuck in her mouth. She couldn't find the words, and mumbled incoherently up at the video screen. The empty chair taunted her.

The Phantom chuckled; a deep, throaty sound that made the hairs on Christine's arms rise to attention. "I could guess your thoughts, if you'd like," he mused, "and though I enjoy games, I don't really want to play _that _kind of game right now."

His voice fell on the last words, dwindling into a lascivious growl. Of course, the thoroughly innocent (though unintentionally suggestive) remark got Christine to wondering exactly what _kinds_ of games the Phantom liked to play, and felt a blush creep into her pale cheeks. She tried to send the thought packing, but found herself having a hard time of it. Had the Phantom intentionally phrased that to be an obscure double entendre, or had Christine concocted it on her own?

That voice of his brought out the worst in her…

The Phantom laughed softly, and once again Christine wondered what he looked like. "You're blushing," he remarked, the tone of his voice evincing that he'd suspected she'd end up in such a state.

The nature of his knowing words grounded her thoughts. He's been baiting me, Christine realized, to make me forget what I came for. He's_ trying_ to distract me!

"Phantom," Christine said, blush draining as her voice became no-nonsense. "Did you throw that light bulb at Caro?"

Silence reigned, then, and the quality of it was contemplative.

"Maybe," he said at last.

"Ah." The maybe said it all. Christine slumped backwards in her chair. "Figures."

The Phantom chuckled. "I found her reaction most amusing, didn't you?"

"Kind of." Christine hesitated, but steeled herself. "I'm more mad than amused, though."

Silence, and then: "Mad?" The voice contained a hidden thunder. "Mad? Why mad? Grateful I can envision, but—"

"Wait, wait, grateful?" Christine replied incredulously. "Why the heck should I be grateful? Caro's the best guitarist we have, and you very well might have alienated her for good!"

The silence fell like a leaden curtain, unbroken but for the sound of static coming from the TV. Christine felt a bead of sweat form on her temple, then make its salty way down the side of her face until it vanished in a stray lock of her hair. Her heart rate picked up. She had never spoken to the Phantom so… heatedly, before, and did not know how he would take such disrespect.

The flow of silence was interrupted by the sound of a harsh intake of breath. The Phantom had breathed sharply, but why? Was it a bad sign, or a good? Christine sweated more, until—

"Oh, Christine," the Phantom whispered. "What did I do wrong?" Before the recipient of the question could open her mouth to reply, the Phantom continued: "I threw that light bulb for you, only you, and our music!"

Christine found herself at a loss for words, but knew one thing: she did not like the way her friend and teacher had said 'our' music. It was possessive, fevered, fanatical. Something about that word—that whispered, caressing 'our'—did not sit well with Christine. Not that it sat with her in a bad way—it simply didn't sit, like she didn't quite know what to make of the feelings it stirred inside her. She was not sure, but—

A knock sounded on the door, making Christine jump. She was used to melodic, precise sounds when in the company of her tutor, not harsh raps of uncertain tempo. "Christine?" came Raoul's voice from the other side of the locked door. "Christine? Are you in there?"

Christine dared not answer. The Phantom, however, remained les than silent. In a whisper so filled with an emotion that teetered precariously on the brink of rage, the Phantom asked: "Who is this, Christine? A friend of yours?"

The doorknob turned, jiggled, but held shut. "Christine?" Raoul entreated again. "Christine? Is that you?"

Mustering her voice at last, Christine called "In a minute!" to Raoul and said, more quietly, "Just an old friend" to the Phantom.

In a less patient version of the soft, silken, angry voice the Phantom asked: "And why is he asking after you so late?"

"He came in to town last night," Christine said mutedly, "and won't be here for much longer. I thought it would be okay if I got dinner with him and talked for a while, though—for old time's sake?" Somehow, the phrase turned into a question—one of sought-after permission.

Silence. Then: "It isn't."

Christine blinked, confused. "It isn't… what?"

"It isn't okay," the Phantom snarled in way of reply, "but don't let me keep you from him, Christine. I'm sure he's the one you would much rather spend your time with!"

And with that, the TV blinked off abruptly, leaving Christine alone with her ghosts and insecurities.

* * *

"Can I ask you something?"

Christine looked up from her plate, where she had been constructing a volcano out of scrambled eggs. She had just been about to pour on the syrup/lava when Raoul asked the question.

She and Raoul had been sitting across from one another in an IHOP booth for nearly twenty minutes, but had had little to say. Christine's mood had turned sullen and distracted after her fight with the Ghost, and her sullenness had, in turn, affected Raoul's mood. He was the type of person to pick up on and absorb the emotions of other people, and with Christine there was no exception.

"Shoot," said Christine, and put down the syrup pitcher.

Raoul took a deep breath. "When I went up to the sound booth to get you, I thought I heard… well, someone else in there with you." He looked at her from under his lashes sheepishly. Her face must have appeared incredulous to him (though to her she was sure it displayed everything, and from it he would be able to expose her, oh the horror!) because he blurted: "I know it sounds stupid, but for a minute I really thought you had either injected yourself with testosterone or had another guy in there with you."

"I was messing with sound equipment. You probably heard stuff on the speakers downstairs. I get most of it rerouted to the TV, you know." The excuse was utter bunk, but Raoul didn't know that and looked appropriately relieved.

"Good," he said, and took a bite of his omelet.

Christine poured the syrup lava and dug in, too, relaxed now that the heat of discovery was waylaid.

"So Meg told me you played some really complex chords during sound check today."

Christine nearly choked and downed a big gulp of milk—a move with double motives, as it both cleared her throat and bought her time to think up an answer.

Raoul, oblivious, went on: "She also said that you weren't that good last time she heard you play, which was… oh… a couple months ago, maybe?" He glanced at Christine, who had frozen. "What's up with that?"

She fixed her eyes on her food, which suddenly didn't seem so appetizing. "I… don't know what you mean," she said, stirring her volcano into oblivion with her fork.

"I think you do."

Christine looked up, heart beginning to pound. Raoul's eyes were hard, though not cold.

"Christine, look," he said, "I've heard you play. Not recently, I'll admit, but I've heard you. You're mediocre, at best, and I'm sorry to have to be the one to say it." He looked back at his food—unhappy to be the bearer of bad news, it seemed. "Avery refuses to let you take lessons, your ear is nothing to brag about, and your guitar is less than top-of-the-line quality. The only thing you've really got going for you is your energy—you're very passionate when you want something, but that isn't enough to turn you from 'okay' to 'great' in a matter of months. Frankly, I don't see how in the_ hell_ you could have improved without a teacher." He looked up. His eyes were like cobalt drills. "So spill it. Did you go buy 'learn-guitar-at-home' video tape bull shit or what?"

"Why do you care?" Though she had not meant for it to, the reply came out as a defensive growl.

Raoul visibly backed down. Putting up his hands in a 'don't shoot the messenger' gesture, he said: "Whoa, whoa, look, Meg's just concerned you might be—well, I don't really know what she meant by it, but she and her mother both used the phrase 'Christine might be getting in over her head,' so…"

"'Meg _and _her mother?'" Christine parroted. "You mean they were _both_ talking about me? And to _you_, of all people!"

"Christine, please." Raoul's eyes pleaded with her more effectively than his words ever could. "Please. They were just worried for you… and now, so am I."

Surprised, Christine said: "'_Now_' you are?"

"You know I'm getting a music degree, right? Well, the truth is, I'm double majoring in music and _psychology_." He smiled. "From what I've learned, all the ways you've behaved tonight indicate that you're hiding something—the defensive attitude, the snippy way you answer questions—even your hunched shoulders screams 'I'm keeping a secret!'."

Christine tried to straighten her back, but failed. Her stopped posture had become a habit. "Is it really that obvious?" she asked.

Raoul nodded.

Within Christine, a battle raged. Her teacher—the Phantom, the Ghost, the velvet-toned voice in her dreams—had warned her to never tell anyone of him, or the connection they shared. But here was Raoul—trustworthy, dependable Raoul—who had a psych major, of all things, and was well aware of the fact that yes, she _was_ keeping a secret.

A big one.

What choice did Christine have?

"You're fighting telling me, aren't you?"

Christine's head jerked. She laughed nervously, then calmed as she felt her inner turmoil resolve itself beneath Raoul's warm blue gaze. "Can you keep a secret?" she asked, and leaned toward him.

* * *

Meg leaned into her hand as her elbow rested firmly on the surface of the bar. "Mama," she asked, "do you think Raoul will be able to get anything out of her?"

"I assume you mean Christine," said Ms. Giry, who was in the middle of wiping down the bar with a damp, Clorox-covered rag.

"Who else would I mean?"

The elder Giry's hand stopped making circular motions on the brass counter as she thought about it. Her contemplation did not last long. "I think we can expect quite a bit on information from our's and Christine's mutual friend," she said, and smiled.

* * *

"I found him about a month ago, just after my awful audition for the house band," said Christine. "I was practicing on the stage after hours, playing along to one of Avery's old recordings I managed to steal from his closet, when somebody called my name.

"It confused me, at first. I couldn't figure out where the voice was coming from, even though I looked everywhere. I even went and took all of the microphones to make sure no one was using them to play a practical joke on me, but of course no one was. But I then I noticed that the rear catwalk backstage was swinging slightly, and realized I hadn't imagined anything. The voice was real.

"I started playing my guitar, thinking he had gone. But then he started calling my name all over again. I stopped playing and just sat there, still, on the lip of the stage, my feet dangling over the edge, and said: 'Who's there?'

"Raoul, I can't really say what happened next. He didn't give me his name; just launched into a really harsh critique of how I was playing the guitar. He was so blunt I went home in tears.

"But, you know what, something about his words struck me as true, so I listened to them. I didn't go back to the stage for three days, but I was noticeably better at playing just from one round of advice, all thanks to him. And it wasn't even big things that were holding me back—my strap was way too loose, he said, and my grip on the pick a little bit off. I was trying too hard to look cool, he said, and not worrying enough about comfort while playing. There was more, but I've forgotten it. The point is, he pointed out all the basics nobody ever thought to tell me, and it helped.

"After I realized that he actually did improve me, I went back a second time, three days later. The lure was just too strong, and I guess the fact that I couldn't see him made the whole situation mysterious enough to keep my intrigued. He gave me another harsh critique, but before I left he told me to check out a specific song. Over the following few days, he taught it to me until I could play it in my sleep.

"I got better and better, Raoul, and loved it. Only, there was a downside to learning from the man I couldn't see. After the first month of tutoring—it's been going on for three—he got rather… possessive. If I didn't show up on time or—heaven forbid—didn't show up at all, he would rave and rail during the entire next lesson about how I was 'abandoning' or 'maltreating' or 'not being grateful enough to' him.

"Worse than that, sometimes he gets on to me about stuff that doesn't have to do with guitar at all—he comments on my opinions, my friends, my appearance. He forbids me from listening to certain types of music and artists; insists I listen to others he finds worthy.

"But that doesn't matter so much, because of the conversations we have. He listens to me, Raoul, and actually tries to get to know me. He and I have a lot in common, and after three months, I feel… well, this is going to sound silly, but I feel like I _know_ him, you know? Like he's the friend I didn't know I was looking for until I found him. He's… angelic, in a way. He's my angel; my genius angel. He brought me a gift, the ability to play guitar, without asking anything in return.

"And I—well, I kind of think I love him, a little."

* * *

Raoul favored Christine with a level stare, then ran a hand through his hair in agitation. "I regret to inform you that you've now got me even more worried."

Incensed, Christine replied: "How?!"

"Think about it, Christine!" Raoul leaned forward in his booth. "How many other young hopefuls do you think this 'genius' of yours has fed all those lines to?"

Christine's pale cheeks colored. "That's not true."

"Is it?" Raoul asked. "I've studied things like this in school, Christine, studied monsters who make impressionable kids become emotionally addicted to them. It never ends pretty—never!"

"So that's how you think of me," Christine said. "An emotional, impressionable child."

"Stop twisting my words!" Raoul snapped. His harsh tone was so uncharacteristic for him that Christine shut up immediately. "Bottom line, here, is that you should stop seeing him as soon as possible, before he gets his hooks into you even deeper than he does now. You 'love him,'" Raoul mimicked, "gimme a break!"

"What do you know?" Christine fumed. "You think you can tell everything about me because of your stupid psychology degree?"

Raoul glared at her. "I think I can tell that you've been totally taken in by this weirdo. You said it yourself—he tries to control you, manipulate you!" Suddenly his voice turned soft. "Please, Christine, stop seeing this guy!"

Her reply was morose. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"He… he needs me."

"'Needs you?' Again, just how many people do you think this guy has fed that line to?"

"It's not a line! He's just… well, he's been alone for so long, that I…"

Raoul snorted and waved a frustrated hand. "There you go again, proving my point," he said. "That's the oldest line in the book. Look, I get that you're an optimist, Christine, but I've known you for a long time, and can say from experience that your optimism can very quickly turn into total naïveté, and—"

"Enough!"

Raoul stopped mid-sentence, stricken. Christine's cry—a mix of a terrible sob and a broken scream—had halted him more effectively than a brick wall. Tears poured down Christine's alabaster cheeks, streamed past her reddening nose in pearly rivulets, and dropped like rain onto the breast of her hoodie, which was soon dappled more completely than a fawn's mottled hide.

"Stop it," she moaned, cradling her head in her hands. "Just stop it, please." She grabbed her coat off of the slick vinyl cushion beside her and slid, crying, from the booth. "Don't talk about me and him like that, not when you don't know anything about how we feel." She hiccupped, sniffed, but couldn't keep her nose from running slightly. "Just leave us alone," she said, and ran from the restaurant.

Raoul tried to follow, realized no one had paid for the meal, fought a battle with his morals, and stayed put.

Outside, Christine ran for home, trying to leave Raoul's words far behind her; trying to forget them. It was better that way.

But it nagged at her mind like an abscessed tooth, because what if, on some off chance, Raoul was right about her Angel?

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

Smoke & Mirrors

By S.J. Endeavors

Chapter 05

* * *

The Populaire was quiet, but not for long.

"Phantom!" Christine cried. She stood onstage in the heat of a single spotlight, one that she had turned on herself only moments before in the darkness of the catwalk. "Phantom! Get out here! I have to talk to you!" She strummed out a vengeful tune on her ancient Fender Squire, the one she had bought secondhand when she was thirteen. It still had its original strings, but even though it was banged up Christine cared for it lovingly enough for it to still have decent sound.

The Phantom did not appear for some time; Christine played out a grand total of four simplified songs by Rush by the time he showed up with the herald of: "Curl your fingers, Christine. Fretting with flat fingers is a bad habit."

"Well, _finally_," Christine grumbled, shrugging out of her guitar's simple black strap. "What took you so long?"

A muted growl echoed out of the fly space above Christine's head. "Don't criticize me, Christine."

"Why not?" she snapped. "You criticize me all the time!"

"There's a fine line between malicious criticism and well-intentioned teaching," he returned coldly. "You crossed that line. I never have."

"Bull!" Christine said, with heat. "Bull! What about the time when you told me Meg wasn't a good friend and I should drop her, hm, just because she told me I looked good in a color you don't think suits me? Or that time you told me that my hair was too short and I should grow it out, or else look like an 'immature child,' huh? Were those 'well-intentioned teachings'? I kept my hair short because it meant less work, and therefore more work time and more money. And as for Meg, just because her opinions are different from your own doesn't make her a bad friend!"

Silence from the rafters, and then: "I meant only the best for you, Christine." His voice was soft, pleading, full of love and care. "I never meant to hurt you."

"Yeah, well, you have," said Christine. Her voice cracked on the last word, and her throat was suddenly tight and aching with suppressed tears. Her eyes burned. Balling a hand into a fist, she sought to rub the unshed drops away but only succeeded in forcing them out onto her cheeks. The drops streamed down over her chin and nose, and she began to sob.

"Christine?" implored the Phantom. He sighed heavily. "This isn't just about me being critical towards you, is it?"

Christine mutely shook her head.

"What is it about, then?" When Christine didn't answer for a minute, the Phantom said: "If you don't tell me I won't be able to fix it."

Christine hiccupped and set her guitar on its stand. "That boy, Raoul," she said, sitting on the edge of the stage. "He… well…"

"What, Christine?"

"He said you probably weren't a… nice person."

Shocked silence. "You told him about me?" the Phantom hissed.

"Well, what was I supposed to do?" Christine wailed. "I've been keeping a secret for three months with no one to confide in! I'm going crazy, and I can't see you or touch you in order to prove you're not just a really nice figment of my imagination! And he guessed, too! He knew I had a tutor! What was I supposed to do, deny everything?"

The Phantom didn't say anything for a long time. "Normally," he finally said, "I would have told you that yes, you were just supposed to deny everything, but now…" He sighed. "I cannot blame you for what you did. It was only natural, after all: you were stressed and alone and confused and had no idea what to do."

Christine's sobs paused for a moment. "You mean you're not mad?" she whispered in disbelief.

A chuckle drifted toward her. "Oh, I'm mad," the ghost said in a voice of honeyed silk. "I'm furious—vengeful, even. I want that boy to suffer for hurting you… and for damaging your faith in me."

Christine's head snapped up. "He didn't do anything wrong!" she insisted. "He was only worried for me. Please don't hurt him!"

"You care for him, then?" the ghost asked. Though the question was phrased neutrally, Christine could sense the spring coiled in her tutor's tone.

Warily, she said: "He's like a brother to me—nothing more."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah."

"So if I asked you—politely, of course—to keep from seeing him outside of the theatre, would you comply?"

Christine hesitated. "What do you mean, 'outside the theatre?'" she asked.

"If possible, I should like to keep an eye on him and his interactions with you." The Ghost's tone grew pleading. "Do this one little thing for me, Christine," he crooned, "and I won't ask for anything else."

Still Christine hesitated. However, thoughts of Raoul's safety won out. "If I say yes, will you promise not to hurt him or anything?"

"I promise," the Phantom assured her.

"Then yes. Thanks." Christine's sobs quieted. "Anyway," she said, standing up, "I should probably go home now. Sorry for disturbing you so late, Phantom."

A pause. "What did you call me?" the Ghost asked.

"'Phantom,'" Christine said. She blushed. "I like it better than 'Ghost.' It's more romantic."

Another pause. "Yes, I suppose it is."

The ensuing silence was an awkward one. "Well," Christine said, fidgeting beneath the hot spotlight, "I guess I'll be going now." She began to pack her guitar into its soft case and attempted to whistle in order to appear nonchalant. Christine did not, however, pull off 'nonchalant' very well at all—her whistling trembled with nerves and her hands shook as she turned off the amp she had been using. All the while the Ghost said nothing, which made Christine all the more jumpy when he finally decided to speak almost a full minute and a half later.

"You said that your admirer—"

Christine's eye twitched. "Raoul."

"You said that he 'guessed' you had a 'tutor.' How did he find out?"

Suddenly Christine was reminded of the traitorous dealings of the Giry women. "Apparently Meg and her mom ratted me out!" she snarled, viciously winding her amp cable around her elbow and palm to form a loop. "They told him I had improved and to check up on me because they didn't want to do the dirty work themselves. How low, right? I could hardly believe it when he told me."

The Phantom's answering chuckle sent shivers down Christine's spine. "And there you were defending the Giry brat a few minutes ago," he said. His tone abruptly darkened. "But what worries me is her mother. Why would she, of all people—" He paused for a long time, and Christine had to ask: "What's wrong?"

The Phantom's voice was so low Christine could barely make out his words. "Giry… Could it be that she wants me to be… No, I won't believe that. Impossible…"

"What are you mumbling about?" Christine said with mock crossness, folding her arms over her chest.

"Nothing, Christine," her Phantom answered. "Remember to turn off the spot light."

"Sure." She began to shimmy up the ladder to the catwalk, but midway through had to stop herself. "Can I… ask you something?" she said into the darkness. The steel rungs of the ladder were cold against her pale cheek,

"Anything."

Her nose wrinkled. "But will you give me an answer?"

Another throaty chuckle. "That depends on the question."

"Who are you, really?" she said. Her voice—a whispered plea of longing and sadness—lost itself in the dark. Christine could have sworn she heard him breathing it got so quiet. Her own breath sounded ragged in her ears, and his voice, when he at last spoke, was atypically rough. "Who do you think I am?"

Christine smiled. "At first I thought I was crazy. I thought you might not be real." She paused.

"Go on."

"Then I scratched that because you knew more about guitar than I did, and how could I teach myself about crap I didn't know in the first place? My next assumption was that you were a member of the house band playing a trick on me."

"Why?"

"You were pretty mean, and I had just royally sucked at tryouts."

"I see."

"But then I thought that maybe you were—" Christine's blushed bloomed so hotly in her cheeks she thought that the Phantom might be able to see it even in the darkness. "Well, it doesn't matter."

"Tell me," her Phantom demanded.

"I," she whispered, "thought you might be my dad."

Silence.

"He died when I was little," Christine said. "He was a great musician. Rock, classical, you name it. I thought you might be his ghost come back to help me."

"And do you still think that?"

She shook her head. "No. I only thought that for maybe ten seconds before trashing the idea. You're way too blunt to be him. He was soft-spoken to a fault."

More silence. Then: "What do you believe now?"

Christine shrugged. "My best bet is that you really are my imagination. I've got a split personality that leaves me all those presents in the tech booth while the Christine side of me goes amnesiac for a few minutes—and hey, maybe the other side of me is smarter and picked up the guitar tidbits from watching too many late-night shows, which explains the tutoring part of this mess. But the point is, I have no idea who the hell you are." She began to climb the ladder in earnest. "You help me, you listen to me, and even if you are overly negative and something of an ass I'm grateful to you, whoever you may be."

"Oh Christine," the Phantom sighed, "if only I could prove to you that I am not imaginary, I would—"

"Seeing is believing," Christine snapped. "You've never once shown your face or touched me. I can't trust my brain and have seen too many movies about schizophrenics to put stock in the physical evidence. No, the only way I'll ever know if you are real or not will be if you give me proof." At the top of the ladder she paused for breath, then climbed onto the catwalk itself.

The Phantom said nothing.

"You there?" Christine asked, walking over to the spotlight. She flipped off the main switch with a grunt and waved vapors off of the lens. A film of curling plastic bubbled and gave off a foul stench. "Ooh, another gel got fried. Shit."

"You'd best tell Ms. Giry," said a voice in her ear. "She will need to order a replacement."

Time, for Christine, stood still. The voice was velvet and silk, honey and musk, rough and arousing and deep, but, most of all, it was directly behind her. Not through a speaker, not through the rafters, but behind her, through a foot of clear, open air. Her knees weakened and sweat beaded on her brow.

"If it is proof you want," the voice said, "then it is proof you shall have."

* * *

Raoul's feet on the sidewalk were like ill-tempered gunshots. "I only tried to help her," he snarled to no one in particular, causing the few late-night passerby to stop and stare, "and what does she do? She runs off and probably never wants to see me again." He spat onto the ground. "Damn that Giry. If she messed up my chances with Christine then I'll—"

He stopped muttering, then, and felt his heart begin to break. He knew he was in love with the girl, stupid, naïve little idiot that she was. He'd loved her since he first looked into those liquid brown eyes of hers, seen the way her chocolate curls nestled against her milky skin. Her innocence and trusting nature attracted him like a bear to honey, and even though Avery would likely kill him for wanting to carry off Christine at the nearest opportunity, Raoul was willing to deal with the older brother's ire for the girl. She was just so sweet, so unpolluted and fresh in a world and a scene where jaded cynicism was as easily and proudly worn as combat boots and fishnets.

Though that's not to say Raoul would seduce her or anything like that. No, he was too much of a gentleman. He would woo her, gently, and then offer her a way out of her dead-beat life with her brother who didn't care and her job that didn't make ends meet. He'd give her a goose-egg diamond, sweep her off her feet, and then… well, of course she would take the bait; she was desperate for it, and—if the look in her eyes when he asked her out was any indication—she was desperate for him, too.

Raoul frowned, marring his high forehead with worry lines. A look of longing for companionship was not the only look she'd worn at the waffle house—a look of confusion had been there, too, and a look of hate when Raoul had denounced Christine's ghostly tutor. Both looks scared him; made his blood run cold.

But the look that had scared him the most was the feeling in Christine's eye when she had said that she loved her tutor.

She was in love, no doubt about it. Her eyes had softened; they held tenderness and unquestioning devotion for her faceless instructor, and Raoul felt he just could not compete. Even though he would not admit it to himself (not consciously, anyway) he felt threatened by the anonymous man and jealous of the connection the wraith had to Christine. Anything Raoul could say to lessen Christine's devotion to the man, the better, and though Raoul would claim that his motives for badmouthing the man were totally pure, they, in truth, were not. He wanted Christine for himself, and himself alone. If it took cunning and guile to do that, well, it was a price Raoul was willing to pay, wasn't it?

In his pocket, Raoul felt his sleek cell phone begin to buzz. The number on the caller ID was not one he recognized, but, then again, who would call Raoul at five o'clock in the morning without good reason? He flipped open the device and held it to his ear with a smart "Hello?"

"Raoul," snapped a woman on the other end. "It's Giry."

Raoul felt his mouth turn into a cruel line. "What is it?"

"Where is Christine?"

"How should I know?" he snapped. "She walked out on me and left before I could say anything."

"I take it the talk did not go very well, then?"

"You can say that again."

"What did you learn?"

Raoul relayed his conversation with Christine to the elder Giry, and when he finished the silence on the other end of the phone was an ominous one. "I was afraid of this," Giry muttered.

"Afraid of what?" Raoul asked.

"Christine is in over her head. I know the identity of her tutor, and he is not, for lack of a better word, a nice man."

"That's exactly what I told her, but why are you telling me this?"

Giry overrode the question. "Christine is not at home, Raoul, nor is she with my daughter."

Raoul, who had just reached the front door of his high-rise hotel, stopped dead in his tracks. "Where…?"

"If my guess is correct, she may have gone to see her invisible friend in order to alleviate the doubts you instilled in her mind. However, he will more than likely be angry about her conversation with you, and—"

Raoul turned back toward the Populaire. "Is she at the music hall?" he asked, breaking into a jog. "That's where she sees him, isn't it?!"

"I have not had time to call the night watchman yet. Currently I am in a taxi, on my way there, but I am wary of going alone. Can you meet me in ten minutes?"

"If I run, yeah."

"Please do so. I do not want our young friend to get into any sort of… trouble." Then the woman hung up, and Raoul was left with only a dial tone.

* * *

Giry was in the middle of interrogating the night guard about the comings-and-goings of the staff members when Raoul panted into view.

"Sure, I saw Christine," the burly man was saying. He smiled with tombstone teeth. "Love that kid. She's a sweetheart."

"How long ago did she go inside?" Giry asked.

"Maybe forty-five minutes ago. I tried to stop her from going in alone—its creepy when it's deserted, and the stories—well, you know about them. Why, you lookin' for her?"

Raoul slumped against the Populaire's front door. "We—" he wheezed "—think she might be meeting someone."

The guard shook his head. "She's the only one I let in since we closed shop." He reached with one ham-sized forearm to push open the front door. "You two can go look for her, if you like. I know that you'll—" he said, looking to Giry "—keep this guy in line, yeah?"

Giry nodded and swept inside. Raoul followed, face intent. "Where should we look?" he asked.

"The booth. That's where she always is." They headed for the stairs, and at the bottom Giry fumbled with her key ring and unlocked a control panel set into the wall. Inside was the comm-system linked to the tech booth two stories above their heads. She thumbed the talk button. "Christine? Christine, are you there?"

No answer.

"Raoul," Giry said, "run up and see if she's in there. Keep your phone on and call me when you learn something."

"Right!" said Raoul, and vaulted up the stairs and out of sight.

Giry, meanwhile, marched over to the theatre doors and pushed at them. They did not budge.

"If you can hear me," she said into the darkness, "let me inside. I know you have her in there with you."

No answer.

Giry's phone rang. As soon as she picked it up Raoul blurted: "I broke down the door and she wasn't in there, but I can see her on stage!"

Giry froze. "What is she doing?" she whispered.

"Playing her guitar and talking to thin air. I can't hear who she's talking to, though, and—" He paused, swore, and Giry heard a few clicks and a then rustle of static. "I just turned the above-stage mics on, but the volume's off so I can't hear yet. Gimme a sec…" Another burst of static. "There we go." Another pause, and then a hushed "Are you getting this, Ms. Giry?"

She didn't hear anything but white noise for a second, and then Raoul must have moved the phone closer to a speaker because she distinctly heard Christine saying: "Apparently Meg and her mom ratted me out! They told him I had improved and to check up on me because they didn't want to do the dirty work themselves. How low, right? I could hardly believe it when he told me."

Giry felt her throat go dry. That stupid, stupid little girl! She had just told the Phantom flat out that Giry was double crossing him—that the Phantom's errand-woman was actually trying to take his plaything away behind his back. Doubtless the Phantom would not be pleased.

"Raoul!" Giry snarled into the phone, but she received no answer from him. Instead a low, resonating voice of velvet chuckled in her ear and said: "And there you were defending the Giry brat a few minutes ago."

Raoul abruptly spoke again. "Giry! _There's really a man down there with her_!" His voice was panicked—and accusatory. "Just what the hell is going on here?"

Giry grit her teeth. "I will explain everything," she said, "but come down from there right now and help me get to her before something goes awry! He's locked the music hall's doors!"

Static, and then "She's packing up her guitar, Giry!"

"Raoul!" Giry shouted. "Get down here! We don't have time for this!"

"Giry," Raoul said into the phone, "I think I can find a mic that routes to the stage speakers so she'll hear me! Let me try this, and…"

Giry took a moment to step back and look at the situation. Raoul was in a frenzy to protect the girl he—Giry was sure about this—_loved_, and was not listening to reason. The Phantom would likely think that Giry had allied herself against him and would ignore her cries for help. To add insult to injury, he had locked her out, leaving Christine utterly at his mercy. Adding to that that the secretive Phantom had been exposed did not bode well for defenseless Christine, and Giry's blood ran cold at the thought of her being alone with the Ghost.

What to do, what to do. Giry put her fingers to her temples and thought faster than she could talk. Questions flowed through her like water through a pipe. Was the Phantom _really _angry at Christine for revealing his existence to Raoul? The Phantom, against all odds, hadn't sounded irritated at the girl, but was he displeased with Giry? She wished she could have heard their entire conversation; why hadn't she come to the Populaire _sooner_? If she had only heard more she would know whether or not she and her daughter, Meg, were truly in danger from their supposed ally-turned-enemy!

She caught herself from thinking about that. Christine was the real issue here, and the real question was if the dark-haired innocent was actually in danger from her so-called 'friend.'

Giry feared the worst.

Trying to think quickly, Giry tried calling for Raoul once more. Sounds through the phone indicated that Raoul was still pawing ineffectually at the control board, and when Giry bellowed his name into the phone he did not respond. Thinking hard, she marched over to the comm panel and barked "You idiot! Get down here right now or he'll kill her!"

Raoul stopped his efforts in finding a way to speak to Christine. There was a pause, then footsteps thudded on the stairs. Giry suppressed a smirk. So she threatened the girl and he came running, did he? Taking note of this for future reference, she waited until he thundered onto the first floor with a wild look in his eye and gestured at the locked door. "I need you to break this down. She's in there alone with him!"

Raoul immediately began to throw himself against the doors. They were barred from the inside with a plank, Giry presumed, because not long after he began to pummel the door came sounds of strained wood and splintering.

"She…" Raoul said, pausing when he struck the door, "went up on… the catwalk, and… is talking to… him there… The lights… are out… and I… couldn't see her… _anymore_!" On the 'anymore' the plank snapped and Raoul found himself flying into the music hall. "Christine!" he cried, lurching to his feet at a run.

Giry trailed after him, as silent as the Ghost.

* * *

Christine felt her spine begin to melt as the Ghost's whisper penetrated her brain. "Is this close enough for you?" he murmured. "Is this enough proof, my proximity? Say that it is."

"You want me to say it?" Christine repeated, struck dumb. "Why?"

A chuckle. "Because if you don't," he said, "I won't be able to stop myself from coming closer."

Christine opened her mouth to tell him he was close enough, to do as he had bid her to do… and stopped. She couldn't do it.

She wanted him to come closer.

And come closer he did. She could feel heat—really, undeniable heat!—warm her back as someone stepped so, so close. Warm breath stirred the back of her unbound hair and made goose bumps rise along her spine and scalp; her arms crossed over her chest to wind themselves tight into the fabric of her sweatshirt. Her palms sweat. Her knees felt weak. Her eyes fluttered closed as her breath caught and hitched in her chest until she was all but gasping for air. She could just barely feel him; he couldn't be more than an inch behind her. Lean back even a bit and…

A black shape swam into her peripheral vision, and she made to turn her head. The man behind her snapped "Look straight ahead" and stopped moving. Fearing to lose her chance, Christine complied and kept completely still as lips came near enough to her ear to whisper "Is _this _close enough?"

She thought she would faint. Air rushed over her ear in a tantalizing wave, and she shuddered. She kept silent, hoping he would act as before and come even more deliciously close.

"Tell me, Christine," he said. "Am I close enough?"

She could feel his breath on the side of her neck; the cold intake and the warmer outpouring of real, human lungs. Not imaginary. Not her fantasy. Real. Her own breath grew even harsher, until she nearly panted there in the dark. Heart beating so fast, so fast… Christine shuddered again, and a single small "no" escaped her.

Lips pressed to her ear; a cheekbone brushed her temple. A wide chest fell against her back and heat from a living body made her feel as if she would melt. That was when she noticed that her Phantom's own breath was labored and that his voice was not quite as smooth as she was used to hearing, but all Christine could focus on was the feeling of two muscular arms surrounding her and pulling her to that wide, warm chest in an embrace.

"Here I am, Christine," said the Phantom. "Do you believe in me now?"

She wanted to reply. She really did. But her tongue was too shocked to form words; her lips too drugged by the honey of his touch to expel them. So absorbed in the sudden physical appearance of her Phantom was Christine that she almost did not here a familiar voice calling her name.

"Christine!" Raoul raged into the darkness. "Where are you? Come out right now! Who is that with you? Come out, now!"

A curse next to her ear. Then something warm and black and smelling of copper—copper?—descended over her face, and Christine's world faded into blackness much more complete than that of the unlit stage.

"Sleep," a lyrical voice told her, "and I will take you home."

Below those velvet tones, someone called her name.

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE

So this chapter was absurdly long. I couldn't find a good place to break it up—it was either two chapters at about 2200 words each or this 4400 word monster, and I know you guys like it long (double entendre) so.... Hope you liked it anyway. It needs some editing, but hey, you get Phantom sexiness. No complaining. Happy new year!


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